


A Golden Drop of Sun

by gohoubi



Series: The Adventures of Jon & Arya [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arya is 9 and Jon is 13 in this fic, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Jon cries a ton in this fic and idc if it's in character or not, Men Crying, Nightmares, No Romance, POV Jon Snow, Pre-Canon, Protective Older Brothers, Running Away, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Westeros, Wish Fulfillment, Wishful Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-09-06 05:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16826254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gohoubi/pseuds/gohoubi
Summary: Jon Snow and Arya Stark are both disillusioned with their lives. A particularly trying day spurs them to run away - to find somewhere they can belong finally - together.





	1. A Thought Bred of Discontent

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually planned to be a Theon/Robb fic, but the whole scene where Jon (Robb in earlier versions of this fic) talks to Arya about not being at her embroidery lesson didn't really fit Robb. Also, I was getting nowhere with Theon/Robb, but I wanted to keep that scene because I liked it. And thus a Jon/Arya fic was born!
> 
> I also wanted Jon to be a rather adventurous, exploring character - hence the monologue at the beginning of him going over maps. This also sets up future chapters of this fic.
> 
> This is complete canon divergence - so imagine that Jon never joins the Night's Watch and Ned never goes to King's Landing with the girls. Hope you guys enjoy it!

After all these years, Jon was used to being given the cold shoulder by his family. Lady Stark openly despised him. Theon Greyjoy and Sansa treated him with distrust. Even his own father acted awkwardly around him.

The only people in his family he felt he could trust were his little sister, Arya, and his older brother Robb. He was infinitely grateful for them, their kindness and unconditional love.

But even with them, he did not spend much time with his family, instead choosing to read in the Winterfell library. Maester Luwin had told Jon that the castle library was the best-stocked in Westeros - and he believed it. 

That particular day, the snow was coming down too hard to go on a hunting trip or spar outside. Robb was doing the accounts with Ned, the girls were at an embroidery lesson, and the younger children were being watched by Old Nan. He would not be bothered here. Which is exactly what Jon wanted. 

History and geography always interested him. He had never been out of the cold, snowy North. Jon pored over maps of Westeros, from the unforgiving, inhospitable regions beyond the Wall to the sun-scorched Dorne. He would jump the Narrow Sea to Essos, to see the wealthy, opulent Free Cities, Slaver’s Bay and the ruins of Valyria. He might cross the Dothraki Sea and the Red Wastes to Qarth, an exceedingly exotic and faraway land to an ill-traveled boy like Jon. 

If he was feeling particularly flighty, he might even dig up the old maps of Sothoryos, trace the little worm-shape of Naath, imagine sailing around the Basilisk Isles to the fabled Shadow Lands of Yi Ti and Asshai. Having heard stories about them from travellers passing through Winterfell, he had no desire to actually go there, but those little-known lands interested him nonetheless. 

Jon was finishing rolling up a map of Ulthos when his younger sister Arya ran in. Spying him, she ducked behind the stacks he was sitting next to.

“I know I’m not supposed to be here, but please don’t tell Mother,” she said.

Jon wouldn’t have dreamed of it, but he was perplexed all the same.

“I’d never get you in trouble, little sister. But aren’t you meant to be at your embroidery lesson?”

Arya seemed to wither a little. “I don’t like embroidery. I don’t want to be a lady. I want to be a lord and go riding and fight with swords, like you and Robb and Bran and Theon. Why is everyone trying to make me be like Sansa? I don’t want to be like her.”

Jon didn’t know what to tell her, but he still wanted to make Arya feel better. “When the weather lets up, we can spar in the courtyard. I’ll be sure to go easy on you.” 

Arya brightened considerably. “I can’t wait.” She hopped onto the bench next to him at the map-covered table. “Is this what Maester Luwin has you studying nowadays? Maps?”

Jon smiled at his sister. “Maester Luwin knows nothing about this.”

Arya pulled a map towards her. “What is this place?”

“It’s called Sothoryos. It’s south of Essos.”

“What’s there? Is it snowy like Winterfell?”

Jon laughed a little. “Quite the opposite. It’s hot and sunny. Full of jungles and mountains. Do you know Jaenara Belaerys? She flew her dragon there. It is said that she never found an end to the continent. It was even bigger than Essos.”

“Can we go there someday? Together? Just the two of us,” Arya said, smiling mischievously.

“You’ll have to get better at your sword skills. We’d be fighting basilisks left and right. But we don’t have to go so far. I’d go anywhere with you, little sister.”

“I know.” Arya snuggled next to Jon on the bench. “Sometimes I wish we didn’t live here. We never seem to fit in. I’m not a lady, and you’re not a trueborn.”

“Why are you wishing for things like this?” Jon said. “We can’t change who we are. Or what our destinies will be.”

“We can wish.”

Yes, they could wish, Jon thought. But what was the point? Jon had yearned for his family’s acceptance for years, yet nothing had changed. What was the point in wishing when nothing would ever change? 

“And besides, why are _you_ wanting to run away? You are a trueborn lady - no matter how much you try not to be,” he teased gently. “I am nothing but a bastard. There is nothing for me here.”

Arya frowned at him. “Sansa hates me. Mother tries not to show it, but I know she wishes I was different. Robb doesn’t talk to me anymore. Bran and Rickon are just little.”

Arya has only lived nine years, yet she talks like an adult, Jon thought sadly. Did the other members of the family know about this? He supposed they didn’t. 

“I suppose. But we have to be content with what we are given in life.”

Arya looked sad, hopeless. Then suddenly she brightened. “We could run away.”

Jon laughed. “Where would we go?” 

Arya grabbed the myriad maps littered on the table. One of Westeros, one of Essos, one of Sothoryos.

“Anywhere! Somewhere other than Winterfell.”

Jon gathered up the maps before she could go on. “Let go of your fantasies, Arya. Winterfell is your place and mine. There is nowhere else for us to go.”

But in the deepest recesses of his heart, where all the hardships of his life could never invade, a drop of hope rests, spreading warmth like the sun, burning away the cold ice of hopelessness and shame.

So when Lady Stark refuses to speak to him at dinner, when Theon shoves him in the hallway, when Sansa leaves the room to avoid him, he does not feel crushing sadness as he usually does. The golden drop of hope has fortified his heart. Arya has injected him with an emotion he has not felt in years.

Jon will prevail.


	2. The Precipice of Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all gets too much for Jon. Arya comforts him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Jon is generally pretty stoic, but he's 13. Kid's gotta cry sometime...right?
> 
> This is a pretty big decision to jump to...but this has been building up for years. There will be a chapter between this one and the fourth one for planning...I promise. Not going to let the cat out of the bag too early!

Arya had not been back to talk to Jon since that day in the library. After getting a scolding from Lady Stark, she was sent to her room for a week. The heavy snow let up two days later, which meant Jon was constantly going out on hunting trips with his brothers, his father, and Theon. His only companion during this time was his direwolf, Ghost. His wise red eyes seemed to bore into him.

_You could leave._

_There’s nothing for you here. Haven’t you wanted to leave? To explore the world?_

_There is so much more out there than this pocket of Westeros._

_Maps fascinate you, don’t they? You could trek every mile of the world, all the way to Asshai._

_You’re nothing. Nobody would miss you._

“Except Arya,” Jon says out loud.

“What did you say, Snow?” asked Theon.

“Nothing,” Jon replied quickly. His torment would never end if Greyjoy knew what he was thinking. Arya liked to call Theon ‘the Octopus’ when he wasn’t around, making jokes about his house sigil. Jon found it hard to disagree with her assessment; Theon was a slimy, scheming man who made his dislike of Jon clear. Theon was always talking to Lord Stark, or Robb; it was not hard to believe he was sucking up to them. But when Jon saw the gleam of respect in his brother and father’s eyes when they listened to Theon…why couldn’t that respect be shown to him?

Ghost trudged alongside Jon’s horse, never making a sound. He occasionally left the path to chase after a rabbit or fox he spied in the trees. Jon loved his wolf. But couldn’t he make some noise every once in a while?

“What’s wrong, Snow? You’re quieter than your wolf,” Theon jeered, eliciting chuckles from the others. 

“Nothing,” Jon replied again. “I just don’t want to talk.”

“Leave him alone, Greyjoy,” Lord Stark called back absentmindedly. “We must be vigilant.”

_Vigilant for what?_ thought Jon. _Who would want to hurt us?_

Dinner was served in the Great Hall later that night. Jon loved the Great Hall, with its big grey outside walls with every type of banner on them, the trestle tables to seat five hundred people, the dim gallery out the back. If Jon was alone in the castle, he might sit on the throne in the raised portion of the Great Hall - only for the Lords and Ladies of Winterfell. Jon would never be able to sit there legitimately, but it was nice to dream.

_Maybe Arya was right. Maybe wishing isn’t a waste of time._

Jon’s lord father would sit at the head of the table, while Lady Stark would sit at the other end. The Stark children would be spread out on the sides. Jon and Theon, not being actual members of the Stark family, would be relegated to another table with the other members of the house. 

Jon normally made small talk with Maester Luwin or Jory Cassel, but this time he stayed silent. Mercifully, nobody bothered him.

Across the way, Arya didn’t seem to be enjoying her dinner either. She pushed her food around her plate with her fork, and even scoldings from her lady mother didn’t stop her fidgeting. 

“Sit still and eat your dinner, Arya,” Sansa said sternly.

“Shut _up_ , Sansa!”

“Arya! Don’t speak to your sister that way.” Lady Stark sighed. “How am I going to make a lady out of you?”

“I don’t want to be a lady.” Arya squirmed in her seat under her mother’s gaze.

“Why must you be so argumentative? You should be more like your sister.”

“Well, I’m not Sansa, I’m Arya. I’ll be whoever I want to be. Can I be excused?”

Lady Stark seemed to decide keeping her wayward daughter in line for dinner was harder than just letting her go. After nodding her assent, Arya ran off to her room.

“Look at little Arya go,” Theon giggled. “So unlike the rest of her family.”

“She’s fine just the way she is,” Jon said tersely. He gripped his knife so tightly his hands were numb.

Theon leaned close to him, so he could whisper in his ear, “She should sit with us. Be an outcast. Just like you.”

Jon slammed his fork down, pushed his chair back and stood up. He was no longer hungry. When he left the Great Hall, he felt eyes on him.

His sword burned at his belt, throbbing in tandem with the anger in his heart. Jon desperately wanted to go outside, mount his horse, and find something to kill, but that would not help anyone. 

His maps, those would help him calm down. Jon strode across the courtyard to the library tower. People around him moved out of his way, which they ordinarily never did. His face must be smouldering. To him, it felt hot enough to melt the snow coming down in gentle flurries.

Jon was almost at the door to the Tower when he heard someone calling his name. 

“Jon! Jon, wait for me,” Arya called from across the courtyard. “Jon, are you alright?” she inquired once she got close to him. “I saw you leave dinner earlier.”

Anger flared up inside Jon, threatening to evaporate that golden drop of hope. Arya was his best friend and loyal confidant, but how could she understand what he was going through? Arya might be the black sheep in the family, but they loved her all the same. Nobody loved Jon. Nobody would care if he left and never came back.

“What do you think, Arya?” He sighed. “I have no life here. I don’t know why I make effort anymore.”

“Jon - ” Arya reached out to touch him, but he pushed her away.

“Go away. You don’t know what I go through everyday. Don’t try to comfort me. Nothing you could say would make this better.”

Arya stepped back. He had never spoken to her in this manner, and the guilt was just another painful stab through his heart.

“You’re not me,” he said, stifling a sob. 

The last thing he saw before he ran off was Arya’s concerned face, rapidly blurring through his tears.

Servants gave him strange looks as he flew past them, up the stairwells to the only place he felt safe - his chambers.

He crashed through the door, slammed it shut, slid down it to a sitting position. He had not cried in years, ever since he had fallen off his horse on a hunting trip. His lord father had dusted him off, wiped his tears, and told him not to do it again.

Now all that emotion was rushing back like a tidal wave, smashing at him again and again, leaving him battered on the rocks. 

Jon shook with every sob that passed through him, loud enough that someone outside the door could certainly hear. At this point he was too far gone to care. Hot tears streaked down his face and dissipated into his thin stubble. He felt like he was going to break in half from anger and despair.

Above all, he wished someone would be there for him. Jon had to rely on himself. His lord father was absent half the time. Lady Stark hated him, and nobody else wanted to be around him. If his uncle Ben was in Winterfell, he may have offered support, but he was far North, at the Wall, impossibly out of reach.

Except for one.

“Jon? Jon, are you in there?” Arya kept calling his name, punctuated by frenzied banging on his door.

“Yes,” he sobbed, trying and failing to keep his voice steady.

“Was it something I said? Jon, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” Arya sounded close to it herself. More stabs of guilt.

“Arya, don’t apologise. It’s not your fault. It’s never been your fault. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

“It’s fine. You didn’t hurt me or anything.” There was a pause. “Jon, can I come in?”

He managed to stumble over to his table, which held a small mirror. He looked terrible, with a blotchy face and tear tracks on his cheeks. But eventually, someone would come to see what the commotion was - and Arya outside a hysterical Jon’s door would not have looked good for anybody.

Jon unlatched his door and opened it just wide enough for Arya to slink in. As soon as she crossed the threshold, he slammed the door and gathered her up in his arms.

He buried his face in his little sister’s hair and cried anew, because she was all he had to hold on to keep from falling into the pit of grief yawning below him. He was telling her he was sorry, over and over again, she was telling him that she knew, and that she loved him. 

Jon finally managed to get his sobs under control. Both of them flopped against the foot of his bed.

“I’m so sorry you had to see that, Arya.”

Arya touched his arm. “Don’t be.”

“I’m so lucky you’re my little sister.”

“I’m lucky you’re my brother.”

Arya snuggled into Jon’s side, her warmth chasing away the sadness. “Look at what I brought.”

She grabbed a satchel off the floor where she had dropped it and held it open - inside were maps of every continent, and every major city. Jon marvelled at this; she must have plundered the library before she came to his room.

“Let’s leave,” she said. “Let’s go tonight.”

The fire within Jon’s heart had been reignited. Out in the world, seeing all the places he fantasised about? With his favourite sibling? Where they could be free from the shackles of their lives?

Jon smiled truly, for the first time in a long time. “I think that’s a good idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could have used 'A Reveal of Vulnerability' for this fic as well as Like Ink Through Water...spot a theme yet? :D


	3. An Escape Made in Haste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Jon leave Winterfell. Jon has a crisis of conscience. He gets over it. Their adventures begin!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming Jon and Arya would always want to go to Dorne, because it is so far away from Winterfell and it is hot and sunny. 
> 
> (I also just wanted an excuse to take this story to Dorne. :D)

After Jon had calmed down, they both realised time was of the essence. They could only skulk around getting horses and supplies for so long without attracting the notice of the household.

Jon went down to the stables to get his horse. The master-of-horse Hullen was sceptical of his need for one, but he did not press the issue.

“Going on another hunting trip, Snow?”

“Something like that. Just move him to the stable closest to the door. I will get him later.”

Hullen did as he was told - even servants had to obey bastards. As Jon left the stables, Hullen’s eyes followed him out. He had to hurry. At some point, someone would tell Lord Stark, and both Jon and Arya would be in big trouble.

As he walked out, Jon called Ghost sharply to heel. He was definitely taking his direwolf with him, and he was not going to waste time looking for him when the time came to escape. 

Where was Arya? Jon knew she was in the kitchen, trying to get some food for their escape. He had already gotten some weapons, and coinage. There was nothing else he needed to do. They just had to wait until nightfall, when everybody would be asleep. Arya and Jon had agreed to meet in his room, before they left.

After taking a quick nap, Jon sat at the table in his room. Despite all the sadness and despair the Stark family had fostered in him, he did not want to hurt them. Lord Stark and Robb, especially, would be saddened by him running away. If only he could talk to them one last time.

Jon had learned how to read and write with all the other Stark children, but he had little use for it. He was never allowed to see the accounts like Robb did, and he had nobody to write to. Nevertheless, there was a leather skin with some sheets of paper and ink in a drawer in his dresser. He grabbed a quill and some paper and thought about what to write.

He couldn’t very well tell his brother and father what they were doing, or of Arya’s involvement. Talking about his feelings of hopelessness and ostracisation would be unwise too. He decided simple was best.

_Dear Robb,_

_Tonight, I am leaving Winterfell, to see the world. I know we will miss each other, but I promise to remember you and think of you often._

_Your brother, Jon_

One down. One to go.

The letter was so bare as to be curt, but Jon couldn’t help that. Night was rapidly falling, and he would have to deliver these before he left with Arya. 

_Dear Lord Stark,_

_Tonight I am leaving Winterfell -_

Jon could not go on. It was hard enough to write a letter to his brother. But a letter to his father?

Tears plopped onto the page, blurring the ink already there. He had to do this, Jon knew. He started writing again.

_Dear Lord Stark,_

_Tonight I am leaving Winterfell. I am going to see the world. None of this is your fault. This is a journey I must take on my own._

_Always your son, Jon Snow_

Now he really was crying, for the second time in a day. He wiped his eyes, let the ink dry, and folded up the letters.

At least Robb and Lord Stark had rooms in the same tower of Winterfell as Jon. He wouldn’t have been able to walk through the courtyard on his own.

It was the middle of the night, so everyone was shut up in their rooms. Jon ran up the stairs to Robb’s room, making sure to not click his shoes on the stones. The thick wooden door loomed imposingly in front of him.

Jon opened his message. He read what he had written again. His resolve nearly cracked in two. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t run away. He was tethered to Winterfell like a prisoner, by family, by honour, by duty.

Arya’s face swam up in his mind’s eye. 

_You’re doing this for her. For Arya._

Before he could falter again, he shoved his message under Robb’s door. Without stopping to think, he did the same at his father’s door.

When he got back to his room, Arya was there. 

“Where have you been?” she asked querulously. 

“Just checking on some things,” Jon said. He did not want to tell Arya about what he had done. “Did you get some food?”

“Yes. Just some bread and cheese. It was all I could find.”

Jon looked around his bedchambers. He knew he would not see this room again. It was small by Winterfell’s standards, and was hidden in the darkest corner of this tower. But it was his, and nobody could change that. 

Arya’s direwolf, Nymeria, had followed her in, and was playfully scrapping with Ghost under the table. 

“Are we taking the wolves?” Arya asked.

“Of course. I’m not leaving Ghost here.”

Jon went to his dresser and withdrew an old fur cape. He tightened it around Arya’s neck. “This is an old cape you can wear. It is too small for me.” 

“It’s so warm.”

“It is. I was so sad when I couldn’t fit it anymore. Oh, I have one more thing for you.”

Jon withdrew a thin, flat something wrapped in boiled leather from under his bed and handed it to his sister. When she unwrapped it she nearly dropped it on the floor, for it was a long, thin sword. 

“I got this made special a few weeks ago. I thought you could take it with us, since you don’t have a special sword.”

Arya took it in hand and tried a few moves with it. “It’s perfect. Did Mikken make this?”

“Yes. I was going to give it to you for your name day. But I decided we might need it now.” Jon folded up the boiled leather and stuffed it in his bag. 

Arya jumped into his arms. “Thank you, Jon.”

“You’re welcome, little sister.” He looked outside, to see the moon was halfway across the sky. “We must go.”

Arya sheathed her sword, grabbed the food bag, and pulled her cloak about her with a certain finality. Jon did the same. After pausing to let the wolves follow them out, he closed his door, for the last time.

The two Starks crept along the edges of the castle buildings, staying out of the moonlight. The torches at the door of the Great Hall were still lit - they made sure to stay well away from them. 

“Your lord father is hosting House Karstark in the Great Hall. We’ll stay away from them.”

Fiddle music and smells of wonderful food cooking floated out of the windows, mixed with lively discussion of the people inside. Technically, the Stark children were meant to be in bed, so they wouldn’t be discovered missing for another few hours. 

Arya turned around to face him. “What gate will we leave from?”

“The South Gate. We have to go by the stables, to get our horses.”

The stable door was held shut with some rope, but Jon slashed it with his sword. He and Arya gently opened the doors, then crept in. 

“My horse is near the door. Do you have one you could take?”

“I’ll take the Octopus’s horse. I ride him sometimes.”

Both of them mounted, they trotted out to the South Gate, the snow muffling their horses’ hooves.

The South Gate was mercifully open, and the guard was gone from the guard tower. Jon vaguely remembered Lord Stark proclaiming that anyone and everyone in the castle’s employ could join in the feast.

Beyond the threshold of the South Gate, the snow whirled and flurried, providing a thin white film covering the low hills to the South. 

Arya broke the silence. “Where should we go?”

Jon thought a while. He shivered under the cold, biting wind. He imagined the sun, the sand, no clouds as far as the eye could see. 

“How about Dorne? It’s the furtherest place from the North we can get. Unless we go to Essos,” Jon teased.

He could not see it, but he knew Arya was smiling. “Dorne sounds nice.”

Jon sent his horse into a brisk run. A few seconds later, he heard Arya doing the same.

Soon, Winterfell disappeared into the distance. But the whole world was opening up in front of them.


	4. Everything Just Got Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya rest up at Moat Cailin. Stark bannermen come looking for them. Lil bit of emotional hurt/comfort.

It was Arya’s turn to cry after they had left.

They had decided to take the Kingsroad, at least until they were past the Neck. Their food ran out a little before the two Starks made it to Moat Cailin. Jon had scratched marks into the leather wrap that had previously housed Arya’s sword. He was up to fourteen marks now. They had actually made very good time, considering how far away Winterfell was behind them. Jon wrote _MC_ onto the wrap after the most recent day mark. He had planned to do this for every destination they arrived at. 

Arya was sitting nearby, stoking a small fire, over which a small dog’s carcass was steadily cooking. The snow and rain had let up for a little while, allowing them to finally have some hot food.

Jon had never been to Moat Cailin, and he didn’t enjoy the place. Robb had told him it used to be one of the North’s biggest strongholds, which rivalled even Winterfell. However, after the children of the forest flooded the Neck, the wooden towers rotted away. Huge streaks of mildew crept their way up the wooden walls that still stood. Colonies of mould bred in the corners of the stone windows. Jon hated it here. At least Winterfell was warm inside.

“Dog’s done,” Arya called. She cut strips off it with her knife, throwing one to Jon. 

Jon tore bits off of it, throwing the fattiest bits to Ghost and Nymeria. While the meat was gamier than he was used to, it was filling and hot, which was better fare than they had been having.

“Where are the horses?” asked Jon, around a mouthful of dog.

“I tied them up in the corner over there,” Arya pointed to them. “They’re eating some grass.”

The fire crackled merrily, creating some atmosphere to the miserable castle. 

Jon looked at their sad little camp next to the horses. He was thankful he had the foresight to bring a small sleeping bag from the armoury of Winterfell. He only had the one, but Arya was slight enough she could fit in it with him. It was so cold sharing warmth probably was the best idea.

Jon’s thoughts were interrupted by Arya. “Do you hear that?”

Jon struggled to listen over the plopping of water and the crackle of the fire.

Horses. Many of them.

Jon grabbed the leather skin and smothered the fire, plunging them into darkness. 

Arya grabbed his hand and drew him further into the room with the horses. The tramping of horse hooves was getting closer. 

Jon prayed that they would not be seen. Jon may not be recognised, but Arya surely would be. 

Jon and Arya embraced each other, ready for the convoy to happen upon them. They didn’t seem to be paying attention to the ruin they passed by; indeed, many of the knights didn’t even glance at it.

Arya gasped, Jon clapped his hand over her mouth. The banners the men were carrying stood out from the ink-black sky; a running grey direwolf on a snowy white field. Stark bannermen.

Jon was internally scared out of his wits, but he tried not to shake for Arya, who was still glued to him. He tried to remember how long they had been gone from Winterfell. Two weeks. Moat Cailin wasn’t that far from Winterfell, especially if Lord Stark needed it to be. If anything, they should have been here a week and a half ago.

Fortunately, none of the bannermen were very focused on their task. They were singing a love song, ‘Two Hearts That Beat As One’. Jon remembered that Sansa liked this song, though she didn’t like to admit it. Some of them were carrying torches, which cast moving pools of light on the ground. 

Jon would have thought otherwise, but the search party wasn’t all that large. After a while, the last of the singing knights continued along the Kingsroad, away from them. Jon must have waited an hour before silence completely fell again.

Arya left Jon to start the fire again. Soon enough, the light of the fire chased away some of the darkness.

“That was too close,” Jon said, flopping onto his sleeping bag.

“Those bannermen didn’t seem very focused,” Arya said, eating a strip of dog. “We could have stood in front of them and they would have missed us.”

Jon stroked Ghost’s head, who was lying next to him. “But we should still be careful. We shouldn’t take the Kingsroad.”

“Why? If the search party is moving in that direction - “ Arya pointed south, “why would they send more people? It’s been two weeks. They probably think we’re at the Trident by now.”

“What do you mean?” 

Arya tossed a dog meat strip to Nymeria. “We’ll be behind them. It will be weeks before they think to circle back to Winterfell. As long as the search party going North doesn’t think to take the Kingsroad south, we’ll be fine.”

Jon was struck anew how intelligent Arya was, and he was flooded with gratitude that she was his traveling companion. 

“How should we get to Dorne? We can’t take the Kingsroad all the way there. It finishes at Storm’s End,” Jon said, grabbing a map of the South out of his bag. “And I have no confidence in our navigation skills. We’ll try to go to Dorne and end up in Crakehall.”

Arya left the fire to join him. She pointed to the Westeros capital. “We can take the Roseroad. Split off at King’s Landing. Go to Highgarden, on to Oldtown, then take a ship to Sunspear.” 

“Highgarden. Isn’t that the seat of Tyrell?”

“Yes.” Arya laid down next to Jon on the sleeping bag. In two minutes, she was asleep.

He smiled a little. For the first time in two weeks, he felt that everything was going to be all right.

Jon snapped awake, grabbing his sword and nearly jumping to his feet. “Jon, what are you doing?” Arya asked sleepily. 

Jon sheathed his sword and snuggled back into the warm leather bag. “I thought I heard something. Sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“No. I can’t sleep.”

“Why?”

“We’re not home.”

Jon ached a little inside. He might have hated it there, but it was his home. This was the first time in his life he had slept away from Winterfell.

“I know. I miss home too.”

Arya tried - and failed - to suppress a sob. “We don’t have one anymore.”

Jon held his little sister closer. “A home doesn’t have to be a place.”

“What do you mean?” Arya sniffed and wiped her eyes.

“It can be our animals. The food we eat. The people we love. Home doesn’t have to be Winterfell. It can just be us.”

“Really?”

“Of course. We might not be at Winterfell…but we’re together. And that’s all that matters.”

“You’re right.” Arya yawns. “I’m going to sleep again.”

That is where the grey dawn finds them, wrapped in their sleeping bag, their slumber and safety tranquil, and impregnable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments on the last chapter :D


	5. A Tableaux of Snow and Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stark kids stay at an inn for a night. Jon tells a story. They plan to go to a tourney. Jon enjoys the scenery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't wait for the tourney chapter!
> 
> P.S I changed the location of the tourney from Harrenhal to King's Landing. Continuity is hard. :( I'm planning this tourney to be held in honour of Tommen's name day. 
> 
> Hope this new location is more to you guys' liking! :D

Jon had no interest in staying any longer at Moat Cailin, and Arya felt the same way. The morning after the Stark bannermen had happened upon them, they had left.

Jon didn’t know about his sister, but he was enjoying the slightly warmer weather. As they progressed further south, the suffocating snow melted away to reveal constantly overcast skies. It wasn’t that much warmer, but Jon had no frame of reference for weather.

A small building revealed itself when they crested over the next rise. “What is that building?” Jon pushed his black locks out of his face to get a good look.

“It looks like an inn,” Arya said. “Shall we stop there?”

“Maybe we should. Not to insult your cooking, but having dog meat is getting rather monotonous.” As if to add emphasis, Jon’s stomach grumbled.

Arya laughed. “Do you have money?”

“I think so.” Jon withdrew his leather coin pouch. “I have some stars. Two dragons, some moons and stags.”

Arya moved her horse closer to see the money. “That should be enough for a room.” She did a double take, looking at the dragons. “Where did you get that kind of money? Dragons? Moons and stags?”

“Remember the tourney before Rickon was born? I competed in the melee. I got a few dragons from winning that,” Jon said proudly. 

Arya seemed to look upon him with newfound respect. “It’ll be nice to sleep under a roof for once.”

Jon and Arya tied up their horses in the small stables abutting the inn and went inside.

The inn was large generally, but it felt claustrophobic by virtue of all the people inside it. Two massive fires roared in grates at the back of the inn, making the room as hot as the Winterfell glass garden. Nearly every trestle table was crammed full with freeriders and knights, laughing and jesting over tankards of beer. Wonderful smells of roast meat and liquor floated from the back of the room, where the kitchens were. A small hole in the wall bar handed out horns of drink, and seemed to provide a centre of gossip. 

“Let’s sit down,” Jon shouted over the noise. “I’ll get us some food.”

He left Arya at the table and went up to the bar. “Hello,’ said the young serving girl. “What can I get you?”

Jon looked around at what the others were eating. “Um…one tankard of cider.”

The girl seductively batted her eyelashes at him. “Do you want some fish with that? We caught it out of the Green Fork. Fresh as can be.”

“Alright,” Jon smiled. “I’ll have some fish.”

The girl called his order back to the kitchen, then turned back to him. “I’m Sheena. What’s your name?”

“Jon.”

“Jon.” Sheena rolled his name around her mouth like she was tasting it. Her eyes roved over his rich leather doublet and fur cape. “Are you participating in the tourney at King’s Landing?”

“There’s a tourney?” Jon’s interest was piqued.

“Of course. Why else would there be so many knights here? We’re the only inn for miles.” Sheena bit at her nails absently.

“Can freeriders participate in the tourney?”

“I heard yes. It’s being held for the Baratheon boy’s name day, in one week. Are you a knight, Jon?”

Jon laughed uncomfortably. “I wish I was. But no, I’m not a knight.”

“You must be a page, or a squire. No man wears leather and cloth of such quality.”

“I’m not a page, squire, or anything else,” Jon said bitterly.

Sheena took this in stride, giggling at him. “Alright, Jon. Here’s your food.”

Jon forced out a grudging thanks, slammed some stags on the bar and headed back to Arya.

“I saw you wooing that girl at the bar,” she snickered, filling a cup with cider. “How did that go?”

Jon felt his face flush, and he knew his face was probably beet red. “I wasn’t wooing her. We were just talking.” Arya shook her head, in a way someone suffering a fool might do. He felt ready to change the subject. “There’s a tourney at King’s Landing, next week. It’s on the way to Dorne.”

“Is it knights-only?” Arya sunk her teeth into the fried fish, oil and brine running down her chin.

“No. Anyone can join. They’ll be food, and merchants, and events. Maybe we can earn a few dragons.”

“Dragons?”

“Maybe. If the king’s hosting it, they might offer dragons.” Jon took a swig of his cider to wash down the fish. “Eat your fish, little sister. I paid good money for it.”

Jon ended up spending a few silver moons on a room for the both of them. The room was austere and small, but the fire made it warm.

Arya rummaged in their bag for a map. “What are you looking for?” Jon asked.

“I’m trying to see which stronghold in Dorne we should go to.”

“I thought we were going to Sunspear. Either that or Planky Town.”

“I don’t know. We should go somewhere that’s a port. I don’t think we’ll be able to get a ship to Yronwood,” Jon said teasingly. “Anyway, it’s late. Time for bed.”

Jon helped Arya take off her fur cloak, then tucked her into bed. There was only one bed, so they had to share again. After shedding his own cloak, he climbed in next to his sister.

Arya pulled the blanket over them both. “Jon…can you tell me a story?”

Jon drew a blank. He wasn’t good at telling fanciful stories. He was no Old Nan, or even Septa Mordane. Sansa had loved the ballad songs of Florian and Jonquil, but Jon wouldn’t sing for anyone, not even his favourite sister.

He tried to think back on his history lessons with Maester Luwin. “Have you heard the story of Bran the Builder?”

“Father talks about him sometimes.” Arya snuggled into Jon’s side, and he put his arm around her.

“Bran the Builder built Winterfell. Bran was a descendant of Garth Greenhand. He’s a mythical High King of the First Men. He wore a crown of flowers and vines, and he could make the land bloom whenever he wanted.”

Arya scoffed. “Why would you use magic for flowers? I’d much rather fly.”

“I highly doubt Garth had a say in that,” Jon laughed. “Anyway, when Bran was young, he helped Durran Godsgrief build Storm’s End, then King Ulthor of the High Tower asked him to build the Hightower at Oldtown. He wanted to build a house for his family to live in, so he built Winterfell.”

“Really?”

“Yes, he did. He thought it should be warm, so he built it over hot springs. There were a lot of wights around too, so he built the Wall as well.”

“Did he do this all on his own?”

“Some people say giants helped him. Others say that children of the forest helped him. Brandon also gave the Night’s Watch a stretch of land twenty-five leagues wide on the Westeros side of the Wall.”

“Is he related to us?”

“Most of the legends say Starks are descended from him, yes.”

“Well, we’re descended from a builder. That’s not very heroic.”

“Next time you meet someone, you can say your ancestor built the second-greatest stronghold in Westeros.”

“What’s the first-greatest one?” Arya asked quizzically.

“Moat Cailin,” said Jon seriously.

Both of them laughed so hard someone in the next room yelled for them to shut up. For Jon, the golden drop of sun had reignited, blooming into a flame of love and hope. In this moment, there was nowhere else he’d rather be. The room was small, and austere, and the bed was lumpy and he was sweating in his shirt, but he was with his little sister. Happy and secure, at least for the night.

When they went to sleep, it was within the glow of the fire, with happiness and comfort burning twin fires in their heart.

The next day, they were back on the Kingsroad, this time they were not alone. Folk from all over the Riverlands and beyond seemed to be going to the tourney at King’s Landing. Lords rode with their wives and children, while freeriders and knights stayed alone.

“Keep your eyes out for a Stark banner,” Jon whispered to Arya.

“Look at that castle over there!” crowed a small child hanging out of a nearby litter’s open window. Jon followed the child’s pointing finger and saw the castle he was talking about.

The Twins rose imposingly out of the fog, the two towers stretching impossibly into the sky. Banners decorated the sides of the castle, though they were faded and washed out from age. Jon vaguely remembered it was the seat of House Frey. 

“Wasn’t Robb going to be betrothed to someone from House Frey?” Arya asked as they rode past.

“Maybe. I thought he was going to marry Arianne Martell.” Jon had heard of the beautiful Dornish princess, though he had never met her.

“I’d much rather marry someone in Dorne than in the Riverlands,” Arya whispered petulantly. “If I had to go to my lord husband’s stronghold, let it be in a warm part of Westeros.”

“Knowing you, your husband would probably be summoned to Winterfell instead of the other way around.”

Jon turned away from the Twins, instead choosing to look upon the mountains that made up the Vale of Arryn. The mountains were craggy and dusted with snow, with small inns and even tinier holdfasts nestled against the foothills. If he focused hard enough, he fancied he could see the Eyrie, nestled in the Mountains of the Moon, next to the Giant’s Lance. 

“Are you excited for the tourney?” Arya’s question broke him out of his reverie.

Jon thought a moment. Was he excited? 

He let himself disappear into the writhing, jesting mass of people going to King’s Landing. Maybe this was truly the start of their new life.

“Yes, I am,” Jon said.


	6. Preparing for a Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon buys some new stuff. Arya creates a new sigil. A little bit of emotional hurt/comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late posting! I was busy making sigil mock-ups in Sketch for this chapter :D

Precious few tourneys had been held at Winterfell. Jon had only seen one, and Arya barely remembered it. It seemed nobody wanted to make the trek north to attend.

Even the tourney that had been held at Winterfell paled embarrassingly to the one at King’s Landing. Stalls with every colour of the rainbow were littered around the tourney ground, selling everything from food to swords. At five-yard intervals, the banners of House Baratheon flapped in the breeze, displaying their black stag on a gold field. Interspersed between the banners and stalls were tents for all the major houses. Jon personally saw Tyrell, Yronwood, and Whent as they rode onto the tourney grounds.

After tying their horses up at a tree on the bank of the Blackwater, Arya and Jon walked to the tourney grounds.

“What event are you going to do?” asked Arya as she looked at chainmail on display.

“Probably the melee, or the archery competition.”

Arya did an about-face. “You know archery?”

Jon laughed. “Of course. Do you think our lord father would have allowed me to get this old without being able to shoot a bow?”

“Fair enough. You don’t have a bow, though. I think I see a stall selling them.”

The stall in question had practically nobody around it, apart from one knight and his son. The bow seller caught Jon’s eye. “Are you looking for a bow, ser?”

He didn’t bother correcting the seller. “Yes. I need one for the competition.”

The seller looked him up and down. “You are rather short for a knight…so this one should be to your liking.” He reached to a rack behind him, pulling down a dark, slim bow.

“This one is made out of cherry tree wood. It hails from Norvos, in Essos.”

Jon tried it out, hefted it, pulled back on the string. He handed it back. “I don’t much care for it. The string is too taut, and it’s really rather too heavy.”

The seller re-racked it, taking down another. “If you didn’t like that one, here’s another. It’s made out of a weirwood tree this time. It’s significantly lighter. Try it.”

The seller was right; the bow was so light Jon could have thrown it thirty feet. The string still had strength, but wasn’t so hard to pull back as the last one.

The weirwood in the bow was calling to him. To Jon, weirwoods signified Winterfell, his family, the North, and everything he still held dear. If he was going to forsake his family by running away, he might as well stay close to them in this way.

After buying the bow, and a quiver full of Valyrian steel-tipped arrows, Jon went to rejoin Arya, who had strayed to look at a shield stall. 

“Are you going to do the melee? If so, you need a shield.” Arya spied the more ornate shields, some of them with sigils painted on them. “Look at these! We need to make up a sigil.”

Jon let Arya drag him to the shields. “I don’t know. I’m not a landed knight or anything like that. What’s the point in making one?”

“It looks amazing! Come on, Jon. We’ve got a new life now! This is the best way to show it. And if we end up making our own Great House someday, we need to strike while the iron is hot!”

Jon smiled inwardly at Arya’s childish idealism, but she wasn’t altogether wrong. He approached the shield merchant. “Excuse me. Is there anywhere here I can get a shield painted?”

“Are you an idiot or something? This is a King’s Tourney, child. Not some scraggly North melee.” The merchant pointed towards the King’s Gate. “There’s one down the way there.” 

The girl who ran the painting stall looked like Sheena from the inn, Jon noticed uneasily. 

Arya took the lead. “Can we get a shield painted?” she asked excitedly. 

“Sure. What do you want painted?”

Now Jon was really drawing a blank. What was he going to make for his sigil? He’d seen so few sigils in his lifetime. He knew that houses and knights sometimes used imagery that was personal to them. But what was personal to him?

“We should do something simple,” he started, “like a sun or a moon.”

“You’re useless,” chided Arya. “What colours do you have?”

The shield-painter brought out a tray of pots with paint in them, all the way from black to a deep burgundy red. She gave them a sheaf of fuzzy paper and a quill. “You can draft the design you want on here.”

So Jon and Arya sat down in the scraggly grass next to the stall to plan their sigil. 

“I want a sword in there somewhere, for starters,” Jon said. “We’re warriors, not nobles.”

“Alright, but I want a sun in there. Maybe a moon, too.”

Jon had never been much of an artist; indeed, none of the Stark children were. Sansa painted occasionally, but paint was expensive, and she preferred poetry anyway.

Arya started by drawing a circle; the boundary of the sigil. “I want a sun. So I’m adding a sun.” She drew a simple sun drawing, with many little spikes around to represent the rays.

“Maybe you could put a crescent moon over the top. Like an eclipse.” Arya did so. “But we still don’t have our sword. Are we going to use a greatsword? A broadsword? A dagger?”

“Let me finish this. I have an idea.”

Arya finished the draft with elegant strokes like a water dancer might. At least Jon thought that’s how water dancers might draw.

“Here it is,” she said proudly, holding it up for him to see. 

A fat round sun, eclipsed by a massive crescent moon dominated the sigil. Two swords crossed in the middle - a two-handed broadsword and a thin rapier. 

“It looks choice. I like it.” Jon took the paper. “Are those our swords?”

“Of course.” Arya smiled sweetly. “It’s our sigil, isn’t it?”

Jon mussed Arya’s hair. It seemed to be synonymous with ‘I love you’ now, he reflected. That was exactly how he wanted it.

“Come on, little sister. Let’s get this sigil painted.”

The shield painter said to come back at nightfall, so Jon bought some bread and cheese and sat with Arya on the banks of the Blackwater.

“I can’t wait till the melee tomorrow. I hope I win.”

“You definitely will,” said Arya loyally, which made Jon swell with pride. “As long as your opponent is the Octopus with a wooden sword.”

Jon playfully punched her on the arm. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Arya. I’ve been practicing with Robb. He’s a formidable opponent. If I do say so myself.”

He looked towards the mouth of the Blackwater, where the sun was setting. The sky was streaked with purple, pink and yellow as the sun went down, creating a magnificent backdrop to the imposing Red Keep.

“Do you miss them?” asked Arya in a small voice.

Jon did not have to ask who she meant. “Of course. They’re our family, aren’t they?”

“I miss everyone. Even Mother and Sansa.” Arya laughed bitterly. “Did we make the right decision?”

“We could go back if we wanted to. But it was our time to fly the nest. We were getting smothered there.” Jon smiled and put his arm around his sister. “We’ll see them again. I promise.”

“I guess we will.”

Two hours later, Jon and Arya went back to the shield painter to collect their goods. The sigil had come out even nicer than they expected, the radiant yellow of the sun, the deep black of the night sky. The striking likeness of Arya’s Needle, and Jon’s broadsword.

Once they had paid, and back at their tree next to the Blackwater, they looked over it properly. “You should name your sword. I already named mine,” Arya said as she honed Needle.

“I guess you’re right. But I don’t know what to name it.” Jon thought a moment. “Wolf’s Howl?”

“That sounds perfect.”

Jon took up a stone like his sister and set to sharpening his newly-christened sword. As he looked upon the many campfires around the tourney grounds, his sister’s face reflected in his sword, the crescent moon glittering in the night sky, he felt content. He was enjoying his new life already.


	7. Haunting Images

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a nightmare. Arya comforts him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made this as an interlude for between the sigil painting and the melee. Hope you guys enjoy the emotional hurt/comfort!

Jon was not used to sleeping nearby so many people. Campfires and voices from other people peppered over the banks of the Blackwater kept up long into the night. There was a melee tomorrow, Jon thought ruefully, so wouldn’t it be better for people to rest?

When Jon finally went to sleep, nightmares plagued him. The disapproving faces of Lord Stark and Robb loomed in front of him, before receding into darkness. Images of him and Arya being robbed, killed, mutilated flashed in and out of his vision, creating a grisly tableaux that had Jon shying away in fear. The images spun and closed in, threatening to drown him. No, he sobbed, and they suddenly melted away.

The whole scene solidified; Jon was standing in the middle of the melee ground. He looked around, six knights were ringed around him, with greatswords nearly as tall as him. When he looked down, he saw that he wore no weapons or armour of any kind. 

Without warning, the knight directly in front of him ran full-tilt at Jon and drove his sword into his stomach. “Pretender,” he taunted.

Outcast, traitor, bastard, craven, coward, every knight came at him with a stab and an insult to match. Once they were done, Jon looked down again; blood was leaking out of him at an alarming rate, creating a puddle five yards across. He looked towards the spectator’s seats, saw they were empty except for Arya. On her face was an expression of worry and fear that cut him better than any sword could have.

“Jon?” she asked in a small voice. “Jon, don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone here.”

He just managed to form his sister’s name before everything went black.

Jon bolted awake, gasping in fear and clutching his chest. He had never before experienced a nightmare like this - and in the face of it, his resolve shattered. When he looked sideways, he found Arya awake and whole; the expression on her face almost exactly like the one in his dream. She took him in his arms and allowed him to cry into her threadbare cotton shirt. Jon struggled to catch his breath through his sobs and the pain in his chest.

“I thought you were gone,” he said to Arya. “I thought I was alone, and - “

“I’m still here. I’m right here, Jon, and I’m not going anywhere.” Arya stroked his back. “I’ll never leave you. You don’t have to worry about that.” 

“Arya, I’m so scared. Help me, Arya, I’ve never been so frightened in all my life.” 

“Is this about the melee? Jon, you don’t have to enter if you’re so terrified.”

“No, I…” Words failed him. How could he express to his nine-year-old little sister what he’d just seen in his nightmare? “It’s not that. I had a nightmare. A bad one.”

Arya made him lie down, then slid in next to him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jon’s throat felt raw and hot from his crying, but the pain in his chest had mostly died away. “Not really. I…just can’t.”

Arya pushed a sweaty lock of hair out of his face. “Alright, Jon. Are you sure you want to do the melee?”

Jon tried to calm himself down. “I’m a Stark. I didn’t come here just to watch. I’m not going to shy away from a challenge - no matter what.”

“Go back to sleep then. You need rest if you’re going to fight at your best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a mess of the tags and forgot to title the chapter the first time around. Something must be wrong with me LMAO


	8. A Fight to Be Remembered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon worries before the melee. He does the melee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so late! I've been spending more time on this one so that it's better :D

The next morning Jon woke up at dawn to register in the melee. He left Arya in the leather sleeping skin and crossed the tourney grounds to the small stall with dozens of others already waiting.

The knights and freeriders in the line talked animatedly to each other while waiting, but nobody approached Jon. His dark hair and sullen expression seemed to scare everyone off.

His breastplate felt uncomfortably heavy, and his shield even more so. He wished that the line would move quicker so he didn’t have to stand out here in the sun; indeed, it was already unbearably humid at dawn. 

Thankfully, after an hour, only a few people waited between him and the register stall. After another half hour, Jon was finally at the front of the line.

“So.” The steward looked him up and down. “You want to join the melee?”

Jon had no patience for coyness this time. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

The steward sighed. “What’s your name?”

“Jon. And I’m no ser,” he added quickly. “I’m a freerider.”

The steward scribbled his name on the melee list. “Come back at noon. Good luck to you, Jon.”

Jon went back to his sister at the tree, who was cooking a fish over a fire. “Did you register?” she asked when he got closer, without preamble.

“I sure did.” He threw off his armour and sat next to Arya. “What’s our morning meal?”

Arya flipped the fish over on a makeshift spit. “Just fish I caught out of the Blackwater. I used Needle.”

“Wow. You caught a fish with that little thing?”

“I went upriver. It moves slower there. It wasn’t that hard.”

Arya made no mention of Jon’s bad dream the night before, and Jon was thankful for it. It was a rare crack in his normally perfect, impregnable facade. He was glad that Arya was there for him, but he had to make sure it didn’t happen again.

Jon and Arya broke their fast on roasted fish, river water and cheese from the night before. The sun rising made the whole Red Keep glow like a ruby. On any other day, Jon would have found it beautiful beyond words, but his stomach was too in knots. He wouldn’t have eaten his fish, but he knew he needed energy.

Jon’s anxiety crept closer to fever pitch the higher the sun rose in the sky. Who was he kidding? He might have martial training, but he was still only a child of thirteen years. The next youngest participant in the melee probably had five years on him. He breathed in, then out again. He was going to try his best. And he knew Arya would heal him afterwards, if it came to that.

Arya shook him gently. “I’ll walk you to the tourney grounds.” She helped him into his armour, gave him his sword and shield, and circled her arm around his waist.

They walked in silence to the tourney grounds with everyone else. At the tent that hid the participants’ entry to the melee ground, Arya kissed him on the cheek and handed him his helm. “I’ll be rooting for you.” Then she was gone, and Jon was alone again.

He sidled into the tent that held all the participants. Unlike in the line earlier, everyone was quiet and taciturn. It suited Jon well enough. He stood in the corner, feeling a little better now that the helm covered his face.

The tent covering at the entrance to the melee ground flapped fitfully, exposing the ground outside. It looked big, bare and dangerous. But Jon was in too far to back out now.

The steward that had worked the registry stall entered the stall and cleared his throat, evidently as a prelude to speaking. He need not have done that, however; the tent was as silent as a tomb.

“Since there are so many of you entered in this melee, you will not all be fighting together. You will be split up into groups of thirty and the last men standing in each group will fight, until we have an ultimate winner.”

Jon heard a faint voice from outside, no doubt calling out the same message to the spectators. This at least made him feel a little better. Taking on thirty people was a lot more doable than ninety.

Jon ended up being in the second group, so he had time to wait. Roars and yells from the crowd did nothing to soothe his anxiety. Many of the knights still in the tent crowded around the tent opening to watch, but Jon had no interest in it. He sat on the bench alone.

The fight ended up taking an hour, which was rather quick. The steward made a reappearance to call out for the second group. Jon stood up on wobbly legs and followed the group out to the melee ground.

The cheers of the crowd overwhelmed him, the sun shining off the armour of his opponents. At the far end of the melee ground, King Robert sat on a dais, with his youngest son taking pride of place next to him. The king drank from an enormous horn, and his eyes were roving hungrily over the next batch of fighters.

His sight faltered - Jon saw the six fighters with greatswords. He shook his head violently; his twenty-nine opponents with skinny longswords and daggers resolved again in front of him.

A shrill cheer drew his attention to the stands. Arya stood there, cheering for him, an expression of joy plastered on her face.

_I must win. If not for me, then for her._

A servant rang the gong next to the king’s chair. The signal to start fighting.

The knights in the ring seemed to need no encouragement. Swords clanged against mail and sword alike. Shouts of pain and submission started soon after.

Jon vaguely remembered that an opponent had to be knocked over and forced to yield to win. With that knowledge, he ran to a skinny, bow-legged knight skulking around the edge of the melee ring, and slammed the flat of his sword into his back. The hapless knight flailed on the ground like a landed fish, stirring up small clouds of beigey dust. Jon pressed the point of his sword to the knight’s fleshy throat. “Do you yield?”

“I yield! I yield,” sputtered the knight desperately. 

Jon sighed. “Alright. Alright.” He drew his sword away, and felt a sudden rush of satisfaction. He could win this thing!

He easily felled most of the remaining knights, dodging their attacks and swinging at them with his sword when they were distracted. His earlier minor victory against the skinny knight seemed to have rejuvenated him; indeed, he could not remember being this energetic. Jon had little time to ruminate on this, however. After about half an hour, every knight had been felled by his hand, except for one.

“Just yield, boy. This doesn’t need to be a fight,” the knight said gruffly behind his helm. His helm was a strange shade of blue, with white feathers sticking out the top. He held a mean-looking mace with spikes poking through the top that were more than five inches long.

_Doesn’t it though?_ Jon thought. “I’m not going to make this easy for you.”

The blue knight rushed him, but Jon was prepared; he easily sidestepped the knight, and dodged the mace blow aimed at him. Twenty minutes passed in this fashion, with the blue knight swinging madly and Jon dodging it. Jon always cursed the fact that he was short and skinny, but in this fight it was a distinct advantage. Hampered by his mace, the blue knight was slow and ungainly. 

“Is this a melee or not? Fight each other!” roared the king from the dais.

The blue knight was facing away from Jon, his attention drawn by the king’s outburst. Jon slammed his sword with all his strength into his leg, and he dropped like a stone.

Jon pressed his sword in the gap between the blue knight’s helm and breastplate. “Do you yield?”

Jon could hear the blue knight grumble. “I yield.”

_This isn’t over,_ Jon thought. But for a little while, he basked in the adulation from the spectators. However, we only had eyes for Arya. She cheered with all her might, waving her arms like he might miss her otherwise. 

_Is this what fulfilment feels like?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of the melee is gonna happen in the next chapter.


	9. Towards a New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon participates in the melee part 2. They win a ship. They set course to Sunspear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this chapter took to write! :D

After the third group fought, and a rest in the tent while all the losing knights were carted off the melee ground, Jon and two others were herded out of the tent.

While they waited for the signal to fight, the knights sized each other up. One of them had a massive spiky ball on a chain. A morningstar. He swung it around menacingly. The ball on the end was bigger than Jon’s head. His armour was stamped all over with a stylised image of a sun. A Martell?

The other held a thin rapier much like Arya’s, which should have made him look less menacing, but his armour more than made up for it. Every space on his body was covered with burnished-copper metal, with a monstrous helm that looked like a lion’s head.

Is that a Lannister? Jon thought, hazily remembering that the lion was a symbol of the Lannisters. He’d heard rumours from passing travellers that Lannisters were among the best fighters in Westeros.

For the first time, a seed of doubt began to sprout within his mind. He was just a northern bastard with an inflated idea of how good he really was. How could he win this? Especially against a morningstar.

There was nothing to be done about it now, however. Jon could have preemptively yielded, but how would he face Arya after? He was going to try his very best, and whatever came after was out of his control.

When the gong rang out, the knight with the morningstar wasted no time in dispatching the lion-headed knight - the massive spiked ball slammed into the side of his head with a sickening crunch that could be heard clearly around the melee ground. The lion-headed knight dropped like a stone, apparently out cold. So much for being the best fighter.

Jon felt the colour drain from his face under his helm. He imagined the morningstar colliding with his head. Blood congealing in his hair and running down his neck. Losing.

Arya cheered from the stands, waving like a stick of wheat in the breeze. “You can do it!” she shouted over the cheers of the crowd.

The sun came out from behind the clouds to shine on his opponent’s armour, until he glowed like hot glass. He swung his morningstar again. “I’m gonna get you,” he growled, his voice muffled by his helm.

Jon stepped away from him, holding his sword up defensively. He was struck by the inadequacy of his weapons. One strike of the morningstar and his sword would be at the feet of the king on the other side of the melee ground. 

The fight continued in this way for a while, the knight swinging at him and Jon dodging. 

The king was highly drunk by this time. “I think this melee attracted a load of duffers,” he chuckled to his wife next to him.

The knight geared up to swing at Jon again. The chain creaked with the weight of the morningstar. Other than that, the melee ground was oddly silent. Even Arya seemed to have fallen silent. 

For Jon, time seemed to slow down. He was entirely transfixed by that sparkling spiked ball.

As it whistled through the air towards him, it spun a little, glittering. _So beautiful_ , Jon thought vaguely. He could see Arya in the stands behind the knight. _Duck,_ she mouthed. Jon could not have said whether she had yelled it, or just whispered it.

In any case, he did as Arya had said. He could not see the knight’s surprise, but he knew it was there, just before the morningstar swung around and met with its owner’s helm.

The king was impressed by this new champion, who nobody knew and only went by the name of Jon.

“As champion of the melee tournament, you may ask of me anything you require, and if it is in my power, it is yours.”

Jon drew a massive blank. Arya and Jon had never actually discussed what they would request. Money? Weapons? A ship? Horses? He had no idea what to ask for.

He wanted to go to Dorne, that’s what he wanted. But would King Robert grant him a ship if he asked for one? 

A traveler passing through Winterfell had told the Starks of the fantastical rewards given to winners of the king’s tourneys. _King Robert has driven the Iron Throne to debt with his outlandish and over-generous prizes to his champions. He once paid out ninety thousand dragons to the winners of a tourney held in his honour._

Jon set his shoulders. “Your Grace, I ask to be the owner of a small ship, capable of sailing oceans with a crew to staff it and supplies to last a journey of six months.”

The king looked incredulous, but he granted the request all the same. “There is a ship on the docks called the _Prophetic Vision_. It has a crew of ten and should be enough to transport you wherever your travels take you.” He waved over a steward, who wrote on a piece of paper, and stamped it with the king’s seal. “Here is the deed. This ship now belongs to you.”

Arya ran around the ship deck, climbing the masts and swinging on the ropes. “This is amazing! It was a great idea to ask King Robert for a ship. I was surprised he granted it!”

“Well, the Iron Throne’s coffers are very well padded.”

The captain of the ship was a genial, kindly man who Jon already enjoyed being around. “Where do you want us to go, my lord?”

Jon walked up to the bow of the boat. “Set a course for Sunspear.”

The sun was setting by this time, glinting off Arya’s rapier as she practiced swordplay on the deck. The crew pushed off the docks and got the ship sailing. After an hour, King’s Landing was far behind them, the ruby towers of the Red Keep barely a smudge in the distance.

Jon knew that their new life was starting from here. They were leaving the North and their Stark name far behind - and now they were going to be somebody new.

The golden drop of sun deep in his heart bloomed and grew, nourished by their good fortune. "It may not be Winterfell," he said to his little sister, "but it's time for me to make good on my promise. Shall we spar?" 

Jon withdrew his longsword and joined Arya on the deck, and the clank of their swords colliding mixed with the crash of the waves against their ship.


	10. A Voyage to Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya hang out on their new ship. Jon imagines their new home in Sunspear.

The good weather surprisingly held up, making Jon and Arya’s journey rather uneventful. They played swords on the deck, had climbing races up the masts, and fished off the side of the boat.

“Bran used to love climbing,” Arya said suddenly when they sat up in the crow’s nest of the _Prophetic Vision_. “I wonder if he’s still doing it. He would scamper around the roofs of Winterfell without a care in the world.”

“Well, not totally without a care. He was worried about Lady Stark catching him.”

“I used to chase him up there sometimes. It was a wonder we didn’t fall.”

Jon looked right, to the island they were passing by. He unrolled a map, and saw the island was Tarth.

“We’re seeing so much more than we normally would. Over there is Tarth.” Jon pointed to it for his sister’s benefit.

“Now I think we made the right decision.” Arya snuggled into his side, and Jon put his arm around her. “Shall we get supper?”

He helped his sister down from the crows nest, and below deck to the ship pantry. It was all preserved food, but right now it tasted like the best food they’d ever had. It tasted like freedom.

Arya and Jon supped on dried sprouts and fish from the sea. Jon looked ahead, towards Dorne and Sunspear.

“What are we going to do once we get to Sunspear? Where will we live?” Arya said through a mouthful of fish.

“We have money in the ship. We can rent a small apartment or something. Do we really need a lot?”

Jon could see it now. An apartment in a sun-baked stone building. Two single beds, a chest with all the winter clothes in them. A desk, ornately carved; a dresser, with enough drawers to hold everything they’d ever need. Sheer curtains covering the windows, that would flap sedately in the warm breeze. They would fish for their meals, and grow vegetables in a rooftop garden. Jon and Arya would fish at the coast every day, and return home tired at dusk, exhausted but warm and grateful for their good fortune.

They’d eat supper on the roof, watch the setting sun glinting off of the golden roofs of the Sandship. Take day trips to the market bazaars, to sell their fish and veggies. Have a quiet life in the place they’d always dreamed of.

Yes, he could see it now. It almost made him weep.

“Jon, what are you doing? You’re staring off into space.”

“Oh, nothing, I was just thinking of where we should live.”

Arya laughed at him. “Who cares? We’ll be in Dorne. Free to do whatever we like without ‘family, duty, honour’ breathing down our necks.” She said the Tully house words in a voice dripping with scorn. Jon imagined Lady Stark said them a lot. “We’ll be free.” After that proclamation, she flopped onto the deck with a sigh.

“Eat your sprouts, little sister. Or else you’ll shrivel up and turn into a wyrm.” Jon raked his sweaty hair back from his face. “I wonder how long this journey will take. We’re already halfway there and it’s only been two months.”

“I asked the captain,” replied Arya absently. “He said three more months at this speed. If we don’t stop anywhere along the way.” She sat back up and ate her sprouts.

Jon left her sitting on the deck and walked across the bow of the ship to sit on top of the figurehead. If he looked down, all he could see was blue water rushing below him. If he looked ahead, it was much of the same, with no land on the horizon. 

He remembered sitting in the Winterfell library, poring over old maps, wishing he could explore the world, instead of his tiny pocket of the North. Now he was doing it, with a ship and money and his dearest friend and sister in the whole wide world. 

Jon felt Arya slide onto the figurehead next to him. “The sunset is beautiful, isn’t it?”

Jon put his arm around her. “Yes. It sure is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn I just remembered I totally forgot to mention the direwolves in like...a lot of chapters. They'll feature in the next chapter - I promise!


	11. A Taste of True Adversity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya fight off some pirates. Lil bit of emotional hurt/comfort.

Many days on the sea passed lazily in this way, with Jon and Arya enjoying the freedom of the boat on the open water. They were on the last leg of their journey - after skirting around the Stepstones, it would be a few days left to Sunspear.

Jon and Arya retired to their bunks below deck once the sun went down one night, as they did every night. Jon slept on the top and Arya took the bottom. Jon tried to let the rhythmic motions of the ship lull him to sleep, but it didn’t work. 

He couldn’t sleep, for some reason. His mind was consumed with thoughts of Winterfell. Was his lord father holding up alright? Were they worried about them? Were they sending search parties out? 

Arya snored and rolled over in her bunk. The only noise was the wind whistling through the sails. Nymeria and Ghost dozed quietly in the corner of the cabin, nestled in Jon’s old fur cape. He was surprised how much of a liking they’d taken to each other - but it wasn’t like there were any other direwolves around.

Suddenly there was an almighty thump, then the ship swayed alarmingly. Quiet footsteps pattered across the ship deck.

Marauders! Jon cursed himself for not having the foresight to travel during the day. He’d heard that the Stepstones was a lawless place, given over to pirates and ne’er-do-wells from Lys and Myr, but he had unfortunately forgotten that tidbit of information. And now his ship was about to be plundered, less than half a year after he had acquired it!

Thankfully these rogues would never find the treasure they were looking for. Jon slept with all his valuables, including the deed for the ship, in a worn leather bag under his pillow. 

“Hey, isn’t this the _Prophetic Vision_? I saw this ship in King’s Landing harbour a year ago. What’s it doing out here?” A faint, scratchy voice floated down from above deck.

“I don’t know. Who cares?” A second voice. A creak from an errant floorboard. “Quiet, Alyn!” Alyn was also the name of a guard in the service of House Stark, Jon remembered vaguely. “We don’t have the whole group with us. If the crew finds out we’re aboard we’ll be as good as dead. Now come on.”

Jon leaned over the side of his bunk to shake Arya. “Arya, wake up. There’s someone on the boat.”

His little sister practically jumped out of bed, brandishing Needle withdrawn from the depths of her blankets. “What? Where?”

Jon also clambered down from his bunk, holding Wolf’s Howl. “Marauders. From what I can tell, there’s only two of them.”

Arya quietly called Nymeria to heel, and Jon did the same with Ghost. “If there’s only two of them, we can maybe defeat them. If it’s gold they want, they’ll be hard-pressed to find it.” 

“What about the crew?” Arya fussed with a strap on her shirt.

“They don’t need to have a part in this. Surely we can smite these rogues. Right?”

Jon let his sister and their wolves out, then shut the door behind them. They climbed the steps to the deck, trying to be quiet. 

The two men trying to rob their ship were lifting up the trapdoors that led to the crawlspaces where all the supplies and sundries were stored, but they clearly didn’t find anything of worth. Bags of dried meat were tossed indiscriminately across the deck, mingling with cases of fresh water. 

“So much for priorities,” whispered Arya. “I wonder how they knew where those crawlspaces are?”

“They said that they’d seen the _Prophetic Vision_ at the harbour in King’s Landing. Maybe they remembered where they were. Come on, let’s take them by surprise.”

Jon slammed the stairway hatch back with a crash, then jumped out, waving his sword in their direction. “Yield at once, pirates, or we’ll have your heads!”

Indeed Jon had very little idea of how to confront an enemy. He always thought enemies would yield in the face of a beheading threat. But once it came out of his mouth, he realised his threat carried about as much weight than as if a child said it.

The moon was out that night, bright and full. Jon could see the two pirates look at him quizzically.

“Is that a child?” asked the one who had admonished his comrade Alyn earlier. “Who is the lord of this ship, boy? You don’t have to get hurt, you know. Just tell us who owns this boat.”

“I do,” replied Jon. “My name is Jon, and I’m the lord of the _Prophetic Vision_. If you want to plunder my belongings, you’ll have to go through me.”

The one he knew must be Alyn peered at him quizzically. “How old are you? Emmett, I think King Robert is truly out of touch. He’s giving away his ships to children now!”

Emmett smiled wickedly and withdrew a long dagger from his sleeve. “All the better for us. They’ll be easier to kill.”

He ran straight for Arya, his dagger held out in front of him like a jousting lance. Arya sidestepped his advance just in time, like a mouse would with a cat. She managed to parry his slash with Needle, but only just - Jon saw a small cut spring up under her eye. He would have defended her, but he was otherwise engaged - Alyn was bearing down on him with an axe. Even in the moonlight Jon could see old bloodstains on the axehead. 

Jon raised Wolf’s Howl to defend himself from the axe. It didn’t touch him, but he felt his arm twinge painfully from the force of holding off the blow. Alyn rose his axe again, ready to strike. 

The axe missed him by a hair, and landed with a crunch in the ship deck. Jon saw his chance - his adversary was preoccupied with his stuck weapon. He lifted Wolf’s Howl and slammed it pommel down onto Alyn’s head, who dropped like a stone. 

He turned around, satisfied that his opponent was taken care of. Nymeria had bitten hard onto Emmett’s leg, and nothing could dissuade her. Emmett, to his credit, was still slashing and jabbing at Arya as much as he could with a massive wolf attached to his calf. 

However, with a violent jerk, he freed himself from Nymeria’s jaws and aimed his dagger straight for Arya’s heart. Jon was too far away. He yelled her name, but he already knew it was too late. 

He could see it happening in slow motion. Was he about to lose his sister, after everything they had been through? Jon shut his eyes - he wasn’t going to bear witness to his sister’s death.

Just when he couldn’t take it any longer, there was a loud thunk, followed by a painful silence. Jon opened his eyes.

Emmett was clutching at his throat, blood gushing from between his fingers. When his hands dropped, Jon recognised the weapon that protruded from his throat - a sharp pointed metal stick with a wooden handle that labourers used to make holes in leather. He could see blood dripping from the handle, and the sharp end of the stick glinted in the moonlight, from where it stuck out the back of Emmett’s neck.

Arya just managed to rip her weapon out of Emmett’s throat before he collapsed to the deck. Jon didn’t ever remember Arya possessing that thing - he supposed she stole it from the Winterfell smithy before their departure. She dropped it to the deck with a clunk.

“Arya? Arya, are you alright?” Jon rushed to his sister, who stood frozen in front of Emmett’s body.

She didn’t respond. “Is he dead?” she asked, in the barest of whispers. “Did I kill him?”

Jon nudged the man with his foot. “I think so.”

A chorus of loud footsteps rang from the stairway hatch. The crew of the _Prophetic Vision_ appeared on the deck, with the captain at the front. “What happened?” he asked, his eyes alighting on the two bodies on the deck. “Are you two quite alright?”

“Yes. Please, put back all the supplies where they belong. And….throw the bodies back onto their ship.”

The crew rushed to obey him. Jon could see questioning looks on their faces, but they said nothing, neither to him or each other. 

The captain looked at the pirate ship from where it bumped gently against the _Prophetic Vision_. “Don’t worry too much about those rogues. Nothing but scum. They had it coming.”

Jon sighed. “I suppose. Is there any point in looting that ship?”

“Well, if your little girl here could kill one of them, they’re probably not the best at plundering ships.”

The captain laughed a little, but at Jon’s murderous look he commanded the rest of the crew to pillage the ship. Even if his statement was insensitive, he wasn’t altogether wrong - the crew’s search turned up a pitiful stock of sundries and only one gold dragon. They set about stowing the loot and readying the ship to sail again. Arya had not moved from her position on the deck, the splattered blood on her pants slowly drying.

“Arya, why are you still standing there? Come on, sit down. You’ve gone white.”

“Why did I have to kill him? I didn’t have to kill him. I didn’t have to hurt him…”

“He was going to hurt you,” Jon said gently. He put his arm around his little sister. “Better him than you.” Nymeria whined and licked Arya’s face earnestly. She dug her fingers into her wolf’s fur. “I didn’t even think…I just stuck him with it. I didn’t even stop.” She sniffed. “Does that make me a bad person, Jon? I didn’t mean to hurt him. I just didn’t think. Jon, I thought he’d leave off once he saw the stick.”

Jon sighed, scratching Ghost’s neck. What was he going to tell his sister? He had no idea how he was going to make this better.

“Look, little sister…sometimes, there are people who want to hurt you at any cost. They’ll do anything to kill you, and sometimes you have to put your own safety above everything else. You didn’t kill him. He dug his own grave. He would still be alive if he didn’t try to hurt you. That’s all on him.”

Arya snuggled into his side. Jon tightened his hold around her. “Look. The sun is rising.”

Indeed it was; for the sky was opening up in slashes of gold, red and bright pink. The sun itself looked like an orange, almost like Sansa’s hair. In the North, Jon almost never got to see sunrises like this. The water glittered like fish scales as the sun’s rays played upon it. The _Prophetic Vision_ was at full speed now, towards the sunrise, and to Sunspear.

For the first time, Jon and Arya had tasted true adversity, but they would not let it ruin them.

Jon remembered hazily the Martell house words: _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken_. Maybe, he could apply them to himself.


	12. A City Of Hopes and Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya arrive at Dorne. They hang out in a market and rent a house.

When the _Prophetic Vision_ finally alighted at Sunspear, it was like a city out of a dream.

Jon and Arya had already discarded their winter furs for light shirts and pants, but they still felt hot. The heat was still suffocating even in the shade. There was no other place they could go to that was more different from the North. Both of them cut their hair short - they both got too sweaty to wear it long. 

The direwolves didn’t enjoy the heat either. Ghost stayed silent, as he always did, but Nymeria panted and whined even before they got off the ship. Jon chained up the _Prophetic Vision_ and walked down the jetty with Arya.

“Where shall we go first? Maybe we can go to the market and get some food. Then we can look for rooms to rent.”

People in the streets gave them a wide berth when they saw the direwolves. Jon could almost laugh. At least nobody would harass them. 

After asking a passerby for directions, they headed in the direction of the market. On the way, they passed brothels, drinking houses, inns and stables. 

“I hope the houses around here aren’t too expensive,” Arya whispered to him as they traversed a narrow alley that stunk of piss.

“It’ll be fine. I have some coinage. It’ll be enough for a while yet. Anyway, judging by the renting rates here, we’ll be able to afford at least a room.”

The two kids left the alley, into an explosion of colour and sound. Jon had never been to a town with a market, so he had never seen one before. The tourney was impressive, but nothing could live up to this one, at least in his mind.

Items for sale in so many colours it made him dizzy. The sound of hawkers advertising their wares, along with barking dogs and sizzling noises from the food shops. So many people in so many displays of opulent finery, with their retinues of servants and sworn swords. The sun glinted blindingly off of golden and silver weapons, flatware and jewellery. 

“Seven gods,” Jon heard Arya say next to him. 

“Maybe we should find a food stall,” he said. “I’m more than a little hungry.”

Some of the stalls had menus and prices, but a lot of them didn’t. Jon supposed a lot of their customers couldn’t read. With that, he leaned over to his sister. “Arya, I know you can read, but try not to let on that you know your letters. Less suspicion that way.”

“Why?”

“Only rich people know how to read. Just so we don’t get found out.”

They stopped in front of a stall that was selling hot buns with meat in the middle. There was a menu in front of this one; patrons could choose from chicken, pork or beef.

Jon withdrew four halfgroats from his pocket; one bun was two groats. “Which flavour do you want?” he asked his sister.

“Beef,” Arya said immediately. “Good choice,” Jon replied, smiling, then he went up to the front to pay. 

Jon stood off to the side to wait. “You can go look around, if you want. Just don’t stray too far.”

Once Arya was gone, he allowed himself to survey the scene. Many wandering hawkers straggled past him, selling everything from fruit to custom flatware. He even saw one with a huge wooden harness holding different types of cutlery. Occasionally guards protecting the city wandered by, their spears held over their shoulders. One of the most bustling stalls was selling roasted fish, at cut-rate prices. From what he could tell, the merchants were expert at ripping people off - he watched one fish seller ask a beggar for a penny for two roasted trout, then ask a well-dressed noble for two stars for the same. Strangely, the noble didn’t protest this.

The bun seller called his name, and Jon got his buns. When Arya showed back up a few seconds later, he handed one to her. “Let’s go find somewhere to stay,” he said. When he bit into the bun, warm oil and fat ran down his chin. He could not imagine anything tasting this good.

Both of them retraced their steps, to get back to where they were walking earlier. Some of the inns had rooms to let, for reasonable prices. Jon wanted one that wasn’t perpetually in shade.

Then he saw it. It was bathed in sunlight, made of yellowish stone, surrounded by a blue sky. It was almost exactly like he’d seen in his dream. 

Arya seemed to have the same thought. “Shall we try this one?” she said, looking at the board that displayed prices for rent. “A two-bed is thirty stags a month. Can we afford that?”

“Sure. I have some money. I can use my gold dragon to pay for seven months in advance. That will give us time to raise some funds. How hard can it be?”

With that, he led his sister up to the stoop, and knocked on the door. A bronze-skinned, handsome man answered.

“May I help you?” he asked.

“We’re looking for a room to rent. A two-bed.”

The man, evidently the owner, invited them in and led them up the stairs. “The prince Quentyn Martell is getting married soon, so these inns will fill up quickly. But right now nobody’s here, so we have a lot of rooms available. Is this one maybe to your liking?”

The owner opened the door to one on the top floor, overlooking the street below and the Old Palace a few leagues away. The room was cramped and the furniture worn and scruffy, but there were two well-appointed windows, and the beds were comfortable.

Jon accepted his offer. He dropped one golden dragon into the owner’s hand, who visibly blanched at the value of the coin. Thankfully he made no mention of it. “That’s seven months rent, right there. There is a communal freshwater well down the road. We have a kitchen and common area down below, if you want something to eat. Here’s the key,” he added, throwing a shiny metal key to Jon.  
Once they had walked back to the ship and retrieved all their belongings, Arya flopped onto her bed. “It’s so comfy.”

“It’s smaller than we’re used to…but I’m sure we can get over it.”

Suddenly Jon felt immensely tired. Here was the culmination of almost four months of traveling. He was here, finally, and all the urgency of the past few months left him in a rush. Jon felt his eyes close, and for once, he didn’t have any desire to stay awake.

When he awoke again, he was pleasantly warm. Arya was reading a map on the floor. 

“What are you doing, little sister?” Jon rubbed the post-nap muzziness from his eyes.

“I’m looking at a map of Ulthos. It’s rather sparse, though.” She rolled it up and stuffed it in her bag. “I went outside, through that window. There’s a ladder to the roof.”

“Is there anything up there?”  
“There’s a rooftop garden…if you want to see it,” Arya said mischievously. 

She led Jon out of the window to a rickety wooden ladder that swayed and creaked in the breeze. “Is it safe?” Jon asked nervously.

“Of course it is,” his sister said nonchalantly, already starting up the ladder. Jon supposed he shouldn’t have asked the most adventurous person he knew that question. Thankfully their room was right below the roof, so they had little ladder to traverse before they fetched up on the roof. 

The roof was hard and sun-baked, with a short clay wall around the edge to prevent people falling off. There were a few vegetable plots, where plants were already taking root. Two benches to sit on, and a table with chairs. 

The sun was high in the sky, shining off the towers of the Sandship. A woman on the street far below was singing a song, her high, hopeful voice floating up to the roof. 

“We’re finally here. Where we always dreamed we’d be.”

Jon put his arm around his sister. “Yeah. Never thought I’d make it.”

“I had every confidence,” Arya said lightly. 

"You know what I love? The fact that we're new people. I'm not a bastard, and you're not a lady. We're just Jon and Arya. Who we were always meant to be."

"I guess it's time for us to be someone new." Arya leaned on the edge of the wall.

“Let’s go back downstairs. The direwolves will be wondering where we are.”

As they climbed back down to their room, with the sun burning their necks, Jon felt his whole world opening up in front of him.


	13. Bad Tidings From Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya go fishing. They meet someone from home and hear some bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda wanted someone to die in this fic.....it can't be sunshine and rainbows all the time!

The next morning, Jon suggested they go fishing. “We can sell our fish at the market.”

They walked back the way they came to their ship, passing shuttered shops and quiet streets. The direwolves yawned as the kids walked along, loping slowly behind them. “We have nets on the ship,” Jon said to Arya as they clambered down a hill. “We can go out to sea and cast them off.”

It was still pitch black outside, with a dark orange blur along the horizon the only clue to the coming dawn. Arya yawned and rubbed her eyes. “We better catch a lot of fish.”

The crew of the Prophetic Vision were sleeping on the ship as of late. Jon had offered to give them rooms, but they wouldn’t hear of it. He’d heard they fished off the boat for their meals. 

He climbed the jetty with Arya on his heels, calling a greeting to the captain.

“How have my lord and lady been faring?” asked the captain, waving to Jon.

“As well as can be.” Arya found it fitting to answer for him. "And we're not lords. Or ladies."

"I know," the captain said good-naturedly. "Just a sign of respect."

“Captain, where are the nets? I thought we’d go fishing. Push us off and take us out. Is there anywhere good to fish?”

The captain bade two of the ship hands to find the nets, then turned back to Jon. “There’s a nice little spot, around the mouth of the Greenblood. It’s flush with fish. A few hours there and we’ll have full nets.” He wrung his hands. “Thankfully, it’s early, so there won’t be many people out there.”

“Sounds good. How long will it take to get there?”

“About an hour, if the wind keeps up.”

Jon and Arya helped the crew unfurl the sails, black as to be invisible. The wind filled them out, and soon the small ship was cutting through the water in front of them. 

Arya withdrew her sword and practiced swordplay on the deck, but Jon decided not to join her. With how dark it was, he’d probably be accidentally gutted by his sister.

He leaned over the side of the boat and watched the water cleave away from the bow of the boat. He was still surprised by how unseasick he felt, considering he had never been on a boat before. Jon decided to retire to the cabin below deck to catch some winks before they arrived at the fishing ground. Ghost jumped on the thin mattress with him and snuggled into his side. Jon fell asleep against his wolf’s huge warmth.

When he awoke again, Arya was pulling nets out of the water, and dumping the contents across the deck. Salt water and fish brine flooded the deck like a poor man’s varnish.

Arya upended a net over the deck, then threw it back out into the sea. 

“How long have I been out?”

“Just an hour,” said the captain, who was throwing the fish into wagons on the deck. “The fish are biting today.”

“That’s…amazing. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Arya wiped a lock of brown hair back. “Pull that last net in. I think we have enough to sell.”

Jon hurried to do as she asked, feeling a muscle twinge in his back from pulling up the net. Once he had emptied it, he followed his sister’s lead and folded it up to be put back in storage. 

“Let’s go back and sell these,” said Jon. “We can make a fortune out of this. But we better hurry before the heat gets up.”

Once they got back to the market, Jon and Arya dragged their wagons around, calling out their prices. “One groat for one fish. One stag for ten,” she repeated.

Jon did the same, while looking around at the people milling around in the street. The market seemed even busier in the morning than yesterday afternoon. 

“Excuse me,” said a woman in front of Jon, “may I have twenty fish? Here are the two stags.”

Jon counted out twenty slippery fish and placed them in the leather bag the woman held out for him. He nearly dropped the last one on the sandy footpath, because what he saw made his heart stop.

In the middle of the crush of people, a singular Stark banner was raised above the crowd. Aegon the Conqueror could have materialised in front of Jon and he would have been less surprised. What business did a Stark have in the South? The white part of the banner was already slightly yellow from being in the sun and the omnipresent dust.

One look at Arya showed she had seen it too. “What are they doing out here?” she whispered to Jon, already white-faced.

“I don’t know. I thought our family hated Dorne.”

The banner was coming closer, but there was nowhere to move. Jon at least hoped that their time at sea had changed their appearances enough - indeed, both of them were more tanned than they had been when they left.

The crowd inched slowly forward, bringing the banner with it. Jon couldn’t see who was holding the banner. He pretended to be engrossed in organising his fish so whoever it was wouldn’t get a good look at him.

“Jon? Arya?” asked the enigmatic banner holder.

Jon turned around guiltily, and saw _Sansa_ , her red hair shining like fire in the early morning sun.

Arya voiced his surprise. “Sansa? What are you doing here?”

Immediately their sister became haughty. “I could ask you the same question,” she spat. “What are _you_ doing here? Our lord father has had groups of bannermen scouring all of Westeros for you.” The banner carrier was a knight Jon didn’t recognise. Her sworn sword, he assumed. “He told us you ran away.”

“We didn’t exactly expect to be found. Or, you know, want to be,” Jon said in response.

Sansa rounded on him. “Our lord father and Robb read those…notes you gave them. Sent the whole castle into a tailspin.”

Jon sighed. “I just wanted them to know why I’d left.”

Sansa glared at him. “Well, it had the opposite effect. Both of them were worried sick over where you’d gone.” She set her shoulders. “I guess I can tell them where you went, then.”

“Don’t do that!” cried Arya. “We don’t want to go back to the North. We like it here.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Sansa said in a voice dripping with scorn. “It’s so hot. Anyway, you asked why I’m here. I’m marrying Quentyn Martell. They would have married you to Trystane, Arya, if you’d had stayed.”

“Thank the Seven I left, then,” Arya said petulantly.

Jon broke in. “How is the family? Please, tell us. We might have run away, but we still care about them. And you,” he added hastily in response to Sansa’s murderous look.

She sighed, seeming to wilt a little. “It’s been madness since you left. Our brothers aren’t as lively as they used to be. Mother and Father don’t talk much. I don’t like Dorne, but I’m glad I’m out of there. It was like a war zone. Even more after Robb died.”

Arya blanched a little. “What?”

Sansa looked broken. “Shortly after you left, Robb got greywater fever and died. Our lord father thinks a traveler coming up from the Neck brought it into Winterfell. Bran got it too, but he survived somehow.”

Jon felt faint. Robb, dead? He imagined all the times he’d gone on a hunting trip with him, sparred with him, played in the snow together. 

“Talk about burying the lede,” he managed to say, finally.

“I know.” Sansa said quietly. “Bran is the heir to Winterfell now.” Bran was seven when they left, Jon recalled. He would be nearly eight now. Jon couldn’t imagine having that much responsibility at that age.

The knight holding the banner cleared his throat. “My lady, we must be getting back. You’re scheduled to have lunch with the prince.”

Sansa sighed. “I have to go. Wait, one last thing.” She reached into a pocket in her dress, and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper. “Robb said if I ever found you, I should give you this. I had no idea I was going to see you here…but I guess you can have it now.”

Jon recognised his brother’s neat handwriting on the paper, which was scrunched into a ball. “Thank you,” he said to Sansa.

“Don’t worry about it. I couldn’t have used that letter anyway.” She wiped her hands on her dress. “Goodbye. I wish you didn’t leave, but I’m glad I found you.”

Sansa melted back into the crowd, almost as quickly as she had come, her sworn sword trailing behind.

“Let’s just sell these fish so we can go home,” Arya said hollowly, after a long silence.

“That’s a good idea,” Jon said, then took up his seller’s chant. “One groat for one fish, one stag for ten,” he shouted again.

How was he going to deal with this news? How could he function in a world without his older brother?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to put the contents of Robb's letter in this chapter, but I don't wanna hit you guys over the head with like.....tons of sadness. So the next chapter will be entirely devoted to his letter.....I promise. :)
> 
> Also, go read my other multi-chapter GOT fic, Among the Fruit and Flowers :D :D :D


	14. An End of an Era

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon reads the letter. The end of the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of A Golden Drop of Sun. Don't worry though, Jon and Arya's adventures are far from over. I'm still planning on making a couple more multi-chapter fics that will send them to places unknown. Right now though I'm going to focus on Among the Fruit and Flowers, and some other one-shots I'm cooking up.

The balled up letter stayed in Jon’s pocket the whole day. The sun rose in the sky, creating rivulets of sweat that dripped off of his hair and stung his eyes. He did not make eye contact with Arya for the rest of the day. He felt bad for snubbing his younger sister, but he couldn’t look at her. 

After six hours, when all the fish were gone and Jon’s pouch was heavy with coins, the Stark kids straggled home, with the sun setting behind them. Arya looked shattered and grey, and Jon knew he probably did as well. Jon missed the keyhole three times while trying to open the door to the room, and he barely registered throwing his money bag into the chest under the window. He flopped onto his bed, and he heard his sister doing the same.

After a while, Arya broke the silence. “You should probably read that letter,” she said thickly.

Jon fished the ball out of his pocket, which was slightly ripped and dry as a bone. He unfurled it to reveal Robb’s neat, unformed handwriting.

Jon felt a tear roll down his cheek and disappear into his stubble. What was this letter going to say? Was it going to be full of reproach for Jon and Arya’s flight? Or maybe the letter would be an expression of support for his younger siblings? Jon didn’t even want to know. But he owed it to himself and his dead brother to find out. He started reading it out:

_To Jon and Arya,_

_It’s been two weeks since you left. It’s not the same going on hunting trips without you._

_I saw you took Arya along. I hope you two are having a good life together. Take care of her. She might be adventurous and tough, but she still needs someone to look after her._

_I’m sorry I never treated you as well as I could have. You deserved better - from all of us. I know you left because of that, and I won’t be able to take that back. Our parents haven’t been the same since._

_I know you never liked the North. I overheard you talking about going to Dorne…_

“He was outside our door that day?” Arya cut in, incredulously.

“I guess,” Jon said blankly. “Robb’s bedchamber is one floor above mine. He might have been on his way there.”

_…so I gave this letter to Sansa, in case she ever finds you. Just know that you and Arya will always be family to me, and I will always keep you in my heart._

_Jon, look after Arya. She’s still a child. Make sure no harm comes to her. Teach her how to defend herself. Let her do the things she’d never be allowed to do in Winterfell._

_Arya, be there for Jon. He pretends to be tough, but he gets lonely, I know it. Keep him company, and give him counsel. I’ve seen you two together. He loves you a lot.  
Be there for each other. You were meant to take this journey together. _

_And if you ever tire of adventure, when you want to come home again, the gates of Winterfell will be always open to you. I’ll make sure of it._

_Your brother, Robb_

Jon balled it back up. “Well, that’s that,” he said sadly.

“Do you think they’ll let us back into Winterfell now that Robb’s gone?” Arya asked in a small voice. She was cuddling Nymeria, her hands twisted in her direwolf’s fur.

Jon sighed. “Would you really want to go back there? We didn’t come all this way just to go back with our tails between our legs.”

“I suppose not.” The ropes of the bed creaked as Jon rolled over on them. “Robb’s gone. He didn’t even know he was going to die when he wrote this letter.”

Jon felt a sob rising up in his throat. “He was still hoping he would see us again.”

“We can’t go back to Winterfell, but we can’t leave here either. If we left him and our family, we have to make our new life count. We owe it to Robb.”

“I guess Bran’s the heir of Winterfell now,” Arya said. “He’s so little. He can’t be a lord.”

“He doesn’t have a choice.”

There was a scuffling noise, and then silence. Jon sat up properly, to look around the small room. The window was open and the curtains were flapping in the breeze; Arya was nowhere to be seen.

Jon clambered up the ladder to the roof. He swung over the low wall. Arya was standing stock-still in the middle of the garden, looking out towards the horizon.

“What’re you looking at?” he asked once he was close to her. 

“The North,” Arya said quietly.

Jon took her by the shoulders and turned her a little to the right. “You were looking at the Reach, little sister.”

Arya giggled, then sighed. “Guess I have to brush up on my geography skills.”

“We’ll have all the time in the world to do that. And I’ll help. I know a little something about maps.”

Arya looked out towards the Sandship, where Sansa must be now. “What are we going to do?” she said, and Jon knew instinctively his sister was talking about Robb.

“I guess we just have to live. Make the right choices. Be there for each other. Enjoy our life. It’s all we can really do. It’s what he would have wanted.”

“Live well to make his death count?”

“I suppose you could put it that way.”

Jon looked at his sister; he saw a tear track down her face to plop onto the yellow stone they were standing on. It created a tiny puddle, which was evaporated by the unforgiving sun. 

He ruffled her hair. “I know. I can’t believe he’s gone too.”

“We left thinking we would see them again. Now we won’t…at least not him.”

Jon sighed. He was not good at comforting people. His normal way of dealing with sadness was tossing it in a deep dark cell in his mind and throwing away the key. “We can’t choose these things, I guess. But he’ll always love us, and we’ll always remember him. He’ll be with us forever.”

Arya looked up at him. “Like you?” she asked wetly.

“Yes, little sister. I’ll never leave you. Our journey might not have been pleasant, and we’ve lost things along the way. But we’re together, we’re safe, and we’re going to be alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my regular readers for coming on this journey with me. Your kudos and lovely comments kept me going when I didn't want to write anymore. Have a great day all of you :D


End file.
